Spira, Spera
by musiclover3
Summary: AU Because, sometimes, beasts fall in love with beasts.


_title. _Spira, Spera

_author. _musiclover3

_a/n. _Hey, guys, look, I'm not dead.

Just thought you'd all like to know.

_ratings/warnings. _T for... whatever I come up with. I'm making this story up as I go along.

_summary. _In which a traitor falls in love with a traitor.

(Because, sometimes, beasts fall in love with beasts.)

* * *

_Who is the monster and who is the man?_

* * *

"I didn't kill her."

The princess glances at him; her gaze almost burns him, really. It is intense, dark, and so much like his- so much like _hers_.

"So you say," she replies calmly. He can tell that she does not believe him; no matter what he tells her, what he says, she will not. No one will.

"I wouldn't kill her," he repeats. His voice sounds hollow, even to his own ears. "I wouldn't kill my own sister."

"They think of you as a monster, you know," she states, ignoring his words. "A beast, even. A murderer. They think me keeping you in this kingdom is bad luck."

"Is it?" he echoes dully. He does not know anymore.

She hums in thought. "Perhaps. Tell me, Sir Ian, Sir Knight- are you a beast?"

He wants to yell at her- _"I'm not a knight, I never was, shut up!"_- but he does not. He has never been one to give in to his emotions, no matter the situation or circumstances. He had been raised in a noble family, born of rich blood, and, monster or not, he would not act like anything else. Not in front of her.

"Answer me this, Princess," he questions, "Are you a saint?"

She laughs bitterly, coldly. Her green eyes shine in the dim light, and it is as if a storm were raging in her eyes. "We are all sinners, _Sir Beast_. I would not be here if I were otherwise."

* * *

He is kept in a cell, fed twice a day, and it is cold and dark and dank and he wants to _die_.

"You were so great once," she muses to him one day. Even in the harsh light, through the thick bars of the cage, she has still managed to look like the princess she is. Her fiery hair still illuminates and her eyes still seem to be looking into his soul, and he both admires and hates her ability to look fearsome and powerful even in a prison cell.

He chuckles without humor, and sits up- as best he can with his hands chained to the floor anyhow. "I still am, Princess. You, on the other hand, will witness your downfall soon." He smirks, his amber eyes glinting through the darkness. "Your kingdom will burn to the ground, your reign of terror will end, and I will enjoy watching you _die_."

The princess sends him a smirk of her own, reaching her thin arm through the bars of the cell- _"When had she gotten so thin?"_- and manages to grab his hand, his wrist still chained to the ground. Their hands are both cold, their eyes boring into each other's. It is dark and deadly and _sad_, really, because they both seem to come to an understanding in those few seconds- a sort of agreement. As fast as it happens, however, it is over. She squeezes his hand so hard it hurts, but he does not show it. He will never show weakness. "Please remember, _Sir Kabra_, that if I am going to fall, then I shall take you with me."

The smirk does not fade from his face. He leans down and raises his eyes up to hers; the beast and the princess. "I am a traitor, Princess. I shall fall either way."

He kisses her hand.

* * *

The war lasts for thirty days.

He can hear the moans and screams of the other prisoners in the prison around him- it has gotten quite full since the beginning of the war, and he has started to get less and less food; he is thinner, paler, and, worst of all, he is still chained to the floor.

He thinks that if his sister were still alive- _"If you hadn't killed her"_- that she would have scoffed at him if she had seen him in such a state. She would have scowled at him, sent him the most disdainful gaze she could muster, and tell him that she had always known that this would be his fate: to die in a prison cell, surrounded by his dying enemies, and caged and treated like a monster, a beast, a traitor.

_Perhaps I deserve this, _he thinks to himself, laughing silently; bitterly. _The moment I killed my sister was the moment I became a traitor; a criminal._

His sister, like him, had been of noble blood. She had been a duchess- spoiled and cultured and sickenly sweet, and he had been a duke, possessing just the right amount of charm, power, and looks. Perhaps she would have been married off to one of the princess's brothers- perhaps he himself would have been married to the princess. They had both been calculating enough and powerful enough to do so. The princes had both loved his sister, that much had been obvious, and it had only been a matter of time before one of them would kill the other to obtain his sister's hand.

If he had not killed her that is.

He still remembers the last look she had sent him as she had died; even with the knife protruding insultingly close to her heart and the blood dripping teasingly from the corners of her mouth, she had still managed to look calm and pretty, beautiful and deadly- like the duchess she was.

Her last words still echo hauntingly in his ears, even through the wailing and crying of the others around him, and he almost wants to scream at her to just _shut up_ and leave him in peace.

He cannot, though, because she is dead. She is dead and is somehow still remembered as the beautiful and graceful duchess she had acted like, but he can only remember how utterly _fake _and _deadly_ she had truly been, and, all of a sudden, his dead sister seems like a perfect reflection of himself.

_I never did love you, _he tells her soundlessly. He can see her shadow on the walls. _I suppose that is precisely why I killed you._

But he knows that both statements are lies.

* * *

Thirty days of war, blood, and torment.

Thirty days of being chained to the ground, being starved, and feeling bitter and cold.

Thirty days of absolutely _nothing_.

"You lost it seems," he says. His hands are still chained to the ground, but it is an almost comfortable feeling now, because _she _is chained as well, and seeing her in such a pathetic state is worth all of those thirty days of humiliation.

She blows a strand of hair away from her face, and her eyes gaze intently at the wall before them- the outside world behind the bars. Her hands are chained in an 'x' shape in her lap, and her dress is torn and muddy and spotted with blood, her hair matted and tangled and dirtied, but she still seems just a little bit beautiful in the harsh light of the prison cell. He can still see the determination in her eyes; the fierce light of a particularly stubborn person who would never give up an already lost fight. He thinks that she is either just charmingly brave or hopelessly stupid, and yet he finds both attractive in some sort of strange capacity.

Then again, she has been the only female he has seen in the past month since the death of his sister, and he has only seen dried bread, bloody men, and silver prison bars in that time frame, so perhaps his definition of 'attractive' is slightly altered at best.

"You seem awfully confident for a man in your position," she replies airily, still looking forward, anywhere but him.

He raises an eyebrow at her. "We are both in the same position," he responds dryly. His wrists suddenly feel sore.

"That is where you are wrong, _Sir Ian_," she counters, her fingers twitching slightly in her lap. "I am still a princess, even of a lost country, and you are still just a traitor."

"But I am no monster," he reminds her, his tone good-natured. He has not felt this sort of amusement in years. "I am no beast."

"No." She laughs, tipping her head back in the process, and he feels the corners of his lips twitch at the sight. "No, the only beasts here are _them_. They beat me." She turns to face him; her cheeks are scratched and bleeding, and a long cut extends on the side of her face from her temple to her chin. "They _beat _me, Sir Kabra. I've finally lost."

"Please don't address me by that title," he says, ignoring her little moment of bitter insanity. "I am no knight."

"You once were," she remembers. "You were _mine_."

"I serve no one but myself, Princess," he says, turning his gaze away from her, staring at the little spot on the far side of the cell. He swears he can see his sister's shadow.

"Your sister," the princess says. "What about her?"

"I hated her," he replies swiftly. But it is a lie, and they both know it.

"Why did you kill her?" she asks him, and it is the first time he has seen genuine curiosity in her eyes. "Tell me, _Ian Kabra_. I am going to be put to death tomorrow. You are going to be freed- a traitor for a traitor. Tell me why you killed your sister; as a last wish to the condemned."

He smirks sadly at her, because she is accepting defeat so calmly, so well, and he finds it suddenly ironic how he- the beast, the monster, the _traitor _to the kingdom- would be freed tomorrow at dawn, and she- the princess, the warrior, the _leader_- would be put to death by the guillotine, much like the fate she had assigned to others. Her kingdom having been conquered, her legendary reign having been finally put to an end; she would die the next day. And he would be free, because he had gone against his own kingdom, and the enemies would reward him with the death of his ruler.

"Why?" he echoes. The shadow on the wall slowly disappears. "Because if I hadn't, someone else would have." He turns to face the princess- _his _princess- once again. He reaches out with his chained hand and finds her own, cold and bloodied. He feels her long fingers tracing the scars on his palms. He almost doesn't want to let go. "She was going to be her own downfall."

_She was getting much too powerful, much too fast._

His princess raises her eyes up to his own, her lips cut and sore. He wonders what they would taste like. "You killed her because you loved her."

He leans forward- _Ian Kabra, the beast, the monster, the duke, the traitor_- and rests his forehead against hers. He can feel her flinch against his touch, but she does not pull away. She has nothing left to lose; she would be dead in hours.

"No," he murmurs, closing his eyes, her own green ones shining much too brightly for his liking. "I killed her because I was jealous of her."

* * *

It is dawn.

He stands in the front, an old brown cloak wrapped around his shoulders, his hood placed over his head. He dresses and acts as if he were a beast, an outcast, and perhaps he is.

Besides the princess, he is the only one left in his kingdom.

The crowd is large and loud, cheering and thirsting for blood. It is sick and horrifying and spiteful, but, still, Ian Kabra cannot turn his gaze away from the face of the thin, haggard girl standing on the platform just several feet away from him; her hands bound behind her back, her eyes chasing sunlight.

Even so, to an almost insulting degree, she still looks like a princess; like the leader and warrior she is, and Ian Kabra is still only a traitor.

And yet they have somehow managed to switch positions.

The executioner drones on about her crimes, her punishment, and asks for her last words as she is forced down on her knees. _"Princess Starling must die!"_

She smirks, and Ian Kabra swears that she is looking right at him.

"I hate that I love you."

The blade comes down.

* * *

_His sister looks up at him from her spot on the floor, her form a crumpled and pathetic heap of blood and weakness. Her hair is tangled and her dress is soaking wet with her own blood, but she still manages a rueful smirk, her amber eyes staring intently into his own identical ones._

_"I hate..." she whispers, her voice raspy and her form trembling. He leans down close to her face to hear what she has to say, his heart beating erratically in his chest. His hand grips the hilt of the knife sticking out of her chest. "I hate... that I love you."_

_Her hand goes limp._

_Slowly, almost numbly, he slides the knife out of his sister's chest. _

_Perhaps, underneath it all, he had loved her, too._

_Just a tiny bit, in his own messed up way._

* * *

_Spira, Spera: Breathe, hope_

* * *

_a/n. _Well.

I don't know what I'm doing.

It was going to be totally different and the princess was going to be Amy, but let's face it: there's too much Amian, and Sinead was the only person who could actually _fit _this type of role. And this was totally OOC and extremely screwed up and I'm sorry.

I just wanted to let you all know that I'm still around for The 39 Clues. Somehow.

I'd explain all of this, but that would take too long, and I'm lazy. I wrote this in about an hour and a half, only because I had no idea what I was doing with this.

Hope you all thought it was alright, nonetheless.


End file.
